


Pinky Promise

by Socrates7727



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Desperation, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-War, Protective, Protectiveness, Sleep Deprivation, Suffering, pinky promises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22686067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socrates7727/pseuds/Socrates7727
Summary: Draco isn't sleeping after the war and no one else seems to notice or care. Harry's always had a thing for saving people, and Draco looks a little too close to death for him to just let it go.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 248





	Pinky Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own HP or any of the characters! Enjoy!

After the war, Draco doesn’t sleep. It’s not that he doesn’t sleep  _ well _ , or that he’s too busy to sleep for very  _ long _ —he just doesn’t  _ sleep _ . Harry lets it be, at first, because he figures that the other Slytherins or people who actually know Draco will step in. But they don’t. More and more each day, Draco is the first to appear in the Eighth Year common room and the last to leave. He still eats, which Harry is ashamed to admit he’s been monitoring, but his meals are becoming predominantly caffeine-based and it’s getting hard to ignore. 

By the second week, Draco looks like he’s inches from death and everyone that should be concerned just… isn’t. Harry watches the blond’s hands in class and notices when they shake too hard for him to write. He notices the way Draco drifts, his mind wandering or maybe going into some kind of self-induced rest, but he also sees the way Draco usually jolts out of that state—panicked, breathing hard, and angry. It’s confusing to say the least. 

No one else is doing anything, though, and Harry is starting to genuinely worry. He briefly considers going to Pomfrey or McGonagall, but he doesn’t want to go behind the blond’s back without at least trying to talk to him first. So, he sets out to corner the blond in their common room. Draco is already there—because he’s never  _ not _ there, it seems—but Harry settles in with his homework and does his best to passively observe. 

Sure enough, Draco looks like shit. He’s sitting alone in one of the farthest armchairs, but he’s slumped into the frame and his body is wedged at such an uncomfortable angle that it looks like he’s physically fighting himself to stay upright. It takes an hour or so but, as the night drags on, the Eighth Years start to filter back to their beds. By the time Hermione and Ron both bid him goodnight—playing ignorant, thankfully, to what he’s doing—he and Draco are practically alone. He manages to glare the three remaining Hufflepuffs out of the room. They go easily enough. When they’re finally alone, Harry dares to speak. 

“Draco, why aren’t you sleeping?” The way the blond jolts and gawks at him, like he’d forgotten where he was or that Harry was even in the room, hurts to see. Dammit. No one should be able to look that vulnerable while picking at the hem of such expensive robes. But he does, and it’s only amplified by the confusion in his face. He looks like Harry has just threatened him—like his mind couldn’t connect the words to some kind of punishable behavior. Harry aches to reach for him, but refrains for now.

“What?” God, he didn’t even hear the question. Even though Harry intentionally kept his words slow and annunciated each syllable like he was talking to a child. 

“Why are you not sleeping?” Maybe breaking that contraction and fully saying every word will help? It seems stupid, but he doesn’t really have any other options at this point and he needs Draco to hear him. 

“Why am I… Oh.” He doesn’t deny it and that alone speaks volumes about his current mental state. Draco has never flat out acknowledged something like that before, let alone an accusation, without at least trying to deny or argue. Harry’s stomach rolls in his gut. 

“Well? Are you going to tell me why?” That seems to register a little more easily. The words ‘tell me’ seem to hit Draco’s subconscious differently and he stiffens in the chair, but averts his eyes to the floor. 

“None of your fucking business, Potter.” It feels good to hear that familiar last name, even if it’s said in anger. But it has none of the usual bite or snark behind it which only worries Harry more. 

“Draco, I’m not going to leave until you tell me.” Draco glowers at him. For a second, he sees a tiny glimpse of the old Malfoy beneath this new, postwar passivity, but then Draco just deflates. He’s shaking on the couch and digging his nails into his forearms in what looks like an attempt to keep himself awake. There are hundreds of red little crescents already cut into that milky skin, surrounding the Dark mark like sick confetti. His face scrunches into a grimace, and then he’s crying. Fuck, he’s crying and Harry is  _ so  _ not prepared for that. 

“He’s still alive, in my dreams…” the blond whispers. His voice is hoarse. Harry can already guess the answer—he knows it inherently, the same way he knows what hunger feels like or what gravity does—but he has to be sure. 

“Who?” Those silver eyes settle on his skin like knifepoints. They’re red around the edges and blown wide from some kind of potion or drug but they’re hyper alert now. It’s disconcerting. 

“The Dark Lord.” It doesn’t surprise him, but the fact that Draco still can’t say his name is just another weight on his chest. Harry catches himself reaching out. He gets three pale fingers in his grasp before he realizes what he’s doing and it’s awkward but he doesn’t pull away. Draco stares at where their hands connect. 

“Don’t tell me it’s not real.” It’s a command—or at least the words are—but it feels more like a plea. Desperate, like he’s heard nothing but dismissal and denial from anyone he’s talked to. Suddenly, Harry doesn’t wonder how all the other Slytherins could have not noticed the change in Draco. They hadn’t missed it, they’d just given up trying to do anything about it.

“Don’t tell me it’s just a dream because I  _ know _ , Potter. Believe me, I know…” And Draco does know, or at least Harry can tell that he’s internalized it on a factual level. He says it the way Ron talks about Arithmancy equations: certain, because he’s been told a hundred times, but without any conviction. Because it is true, but it isn’t true to  _ him _ .

“You know, but…?” And there is a ‘but’ because there has to be. Something is holding him back and clearly it’s something big enough to warrant not sleeping. Draco stares at his hands. 

“But it  _ is  _ real and he  _ can _ hurt me. No one believes me but he  _ can _ hurt me and he will if I sleep again. I know it sounds crazy—because it is—but I wake up with scratches and bruises all over my body that I didn’t do and he… I’m so fucking scared.” Harry can’t help it. Maybe it’s the tone of Draco’s voice or maybe it’s the way that every breath he lets go of seems to shake him to his core but Harry can’t do it. He gathers the blond into his arms and begins to rock them back and forth. 

“Shhhh I believe you. Do you hear me, Draco? I believe you and we’re going to figure this out, okay? Why haven’t you told anyone? Gone to Pomfrey or McGonagall or St Mungo’s?” Draco snorts into his chest. 

“There’s nothing they can do. There’s nothing  _ anyone _ can do because they don’t think it’s real. They tell me to relax or to see a mind healer but…” Fuck if that doesn’t sound familiar. Harry can still vividly remember the helplessness he’d felt when people had denied Voldemort’s return. He still feels the sting of people shrugging him off, and he is  _ not  _ going to do that to Draco. 

“But?” Even if he doesn’t understand or isn’t sure what’s happening to Draco, he knows that the blond believes it. He believes that something is happening, and he knows that Draco wouldn’t let it go this far if it wasn’t serious. This is no petty tantrum or postwar drama. Draco is genuinely terrified, and Harry is not going to dismiss that.

“But he’s getting stronger. I’ve already slipped up too many times and he’ll kill me soon. For real.” Harry smooths his hair and continues to rock them but his mind is spinning. He has no idea what to say or how to even begin to help with this. But Draco is curling into him and Harry is overcome with the urge to protect. 

“Shhhh… It’s gonna be okay. You’ve been taking Revitalization Potions?” Draco nods, soundless against his chest. “Yeah. I did that a few years ago, back when I started seeing through Voldemort’s eyes in my dreams. The potions get less effective, though, and your body will force you to sleep sooner or later.” Draco just groans into him and continues to cry. Fuck, Harry  _ needs _ to fix this. Something deep inside him feels personally committed to this and to the blond in his arms.

“Hey, he comes for you in your dreams, right?” A nod. “Well stay here with me and I’ll fight him when he comes. I’ve beat him once, and I’ll do it again. You’re safe, Draco, you need to sleep. I’ve got you, and I’ll wake you the second something seems off. I’ll fight him for you, okay?” 

Draco tries to protest, but it’s weak and he’s already drifting. It’s been weeks since he last slept for more than an hour or two at a time and the effects are showing. He sinks into Harry like a security blanket. Harry is sure that he’s asleep almost instantly, until a tiny voice wavers up from the material of his sweatshirt.

“Pinky promise?” His chest seizes at that tone and maybe it’s the request or maybe it’s the fact that Draco is still shaking in his lap but Harry can physically feel his heart shatter. He hugs the blond a little tighter and finds his hand. Acting for both parties, he twists their pinkies together and kisses Draco’s forehead over the messy blond fringe. 

“Pinky promise,” he whispers, keeping his voice low. “I’ve got you, Draco. I won’t let him hurt you—you’re safe. Now sleep. We’ll talk more when you wake up, okay? I’ve got you, Drake, it’s time for you to sleep.” 

He can’t be sure what parts Draco hears and which parts get lost in slumber but, by the time he’s said his peace, the blond is asleep. His breathing comes in short, panting little gasps against Harry’s throat. It’s oddly comforting to be so close to someone, and to have control of the situation, but he does his best to push those thoughts from his mind. He can think about his own issues later. Right now, he needs to focus on Draco. 

He isn’t tired in the slightest—not now, when Draco has just confessed so much to him—so he shifts them as gently as he can to wrap his fingers around one pale wrist. Carefully, he feels for a pulse and lets the pad of his pointer finger rest over it to monitor. With his other hand, he smooths the blond’s hair a few times before letting it stay there, just waiting for some kind of jerk or flinch to indicate that Draco isn’t alright. 

Nothing comes, but Harry settles into the position and is content to stay there for as long as Draco will sleep. After all, he’d pinky promised. 


End file.
